


Evidence, Removed

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath, Bathing, Darkfic, Implied Torture, M/M, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Trauma, implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edgeworth is forced to bathe after Gant has traumatised him some more after the events in 1-4. Trigger warnings for implied abuse and Gant being a sick fuck about the whole ordeal and a very obviously damaged Edgeworth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evidence, Removed

**Author's Note:**

> _I'd like to request Gant/Edgeworth with Gant bathing stubborn!Edgey~ <3 It can be con or non-con, doesn't matter._
> 
> And so, The Phoenix Wright Kink Meme gets me writing the wrongness again. I went through this phase of being fascinated with Gant's interactions; it started with the idea of Gant and Lana having a relationship (I actually thought that was going to be revealed in canon whilst playing the game) and then Gant's interactions with both Edgeworth and Manfred. There is something REALLY unnerving about Gant, and I can understand how he became a memetic monster. It's not just the stare, it's the over-exuberant cheerfulness as well... 
> 
> I guess because of Edgeworth's isolation, his seriousness and his stiff-upper-lip thing and determination to succeed, he just screams 'victim' as well. But he's also, at the heart of everything, a survivor whose traumatic experiences never break his integrity and decency at the end of the day, too. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't actually remember when I wrote this one, but from my comments, I see that I'd been drinking when I wrote it. *facepalms*

It was disturbing how calm he looked about it all. He shouldn't have worn that smug expression, those turquoise eye shimmering at him like that; it was positively  _creepy_ ; he looked altogether too pleased with himself.  
  
He wondered ho Manfred would feel about it if he'd known. Damon Gant had been one of his closest friends, a trusted confidant, an ally.   
  


Then again, this was said long before Manfred's imprisonment. Who Manfred von Karma was now— and who Damon Gant was— were up in the air— and not to be trusted.  
  
"Please," muttered Miles, "I just want... some privacy."  
  
He knew  _why_  Gant wanted him to bathe so badly. It wasn't about hospitality or concern, it was about protection. Hiding the evidence of what had just happened.   
  
All the younger man wanted now was the space and privacy to enjoy a bath, let the water move over him, cleansing away what had just happened, soothing him, calming him.  
  
There was nothing more Gant could see or do to him; but all he wanted now was the space to bathe; to mourn; in private. Somehow that act was perfectly innocent— but it was a  _private_  one— and Gant and that smug, sadistic smile weren't going to just leave him alone.  
  
 _He's probably afraid_ , Miles thought, running a finger over the scratch on his chest, startled to see a smudge of blood on its top when he pulled away.  
  


"Come on now, Worthy." Gant smiled, tilting slightly, ignoring what Edgeworth was doing. "You need a bit of a wash after the things we were getting up to earlier." He still sounded so terrifyingly jovial. Miles turned away, momentarily looking at the taps mounted on the wall next to the huge bath.   
  
Gant had filled it, most likely while he was still tied up and wondering what exactly the damage was on his shoulder. At the time, it had felt like a cut requiring surgery... Afterwards, though, the pain had dulled, and Miles wasn't sure whether he was just overreacting or whether Damon Gant had pulled some sort of trick on him. He wouldn't have been surprised if the perverted animal had put something on the wound to make it sting even more.  
  
 _Bastard_. He wanted to spit, to fight, to retaliate in a way that threw all his upbringing— from both his birth home and Casa von Karma— out the window. He wanted to disgust Gant, but wasn't sure if that would just be playing into his hands and doing precisely what the sadistic chief wanted.  
  
  
He wanted Phoenix, he realised. The man had been his rock while he was on trial; there was something innocent and kind of simple about the defense attorney. Things like this didn't happen in his world, and if he knew about them, he'd respond with anger and a desire to bring the wrongdoer to justice.  
  
Except there'd be no justice for Damon Gant; he was too damned powerful. Of course, they'd told Phoenix the same thing about Redd White, and about Manfred von Karma; you didn't and couldn't just take on men like that in court and expect to  _win—_  and somehow he  _had_.   
  
But he had to lose sometime. You  _couldn't_  win against Damon Gant; ever: his power was more than everyone else's combined, and he was smart and smug and well-supported to boot.  
  
But somehow, Phoenix's presence, the idea of him, was reassuring.  
  


  
"Into the bath, Edgey-boy... I want to see you wash all that filth and grime from your dirty little body..." Gant leaned over the side of the enormous tub and dangled a finger into the surface of the water, he hand getting lost beneath the copious amounts of white fluffy bubbles on the surface.  
  
Miles looked at them and winced, wondering how new, open wounds would react to bubblebath.  
  
"Just... wait..." His voice shook and he was alarmingly close to tears. Strangely enough, all through the previous ordeal, much to his surprise, actually— he'd managed to keep a tight rein on his responses— barring a few unavoidable gasps and grunts, he'd left Damon Gant with nothing; no pleasure at the pain he was inflicting, no cries for mercy, no sobs. Even if his cruelty damaged him, there was no way in hell Damon Gant was going to see it and get off on it, even if it made him relent somewhat.   
  
He shook slightly, bracing himself for the warmth of the water and the sting of the bubbles against his broken skin.

Gant peered at him like a voyeur, like he was watching something that he wasn't supposed to be, giving the young prosecutor a look which made Edgeworth feel mildly nauseous. Or maybe that was just a delayed reaction— his mind might have shut off when things were actually happening, not really allowing him to feel the full brunt of the physical agony he was in.  
  
He gingerly stepped into the bath, not looking at Gant, and sat down.  
  
It wasn't as uncomfortable as he'd anticipated. It wasn't pleasant, particularly with Gant crouched down, leaning in towards the water, his sleeves pulled up and a sponge in his hand. "Come on, Worthy," he goaded, " _Make_  yourself clean for me."  
  
 _Yeah, remove any traces of evidence..._  
  
Which was, in all fairness, precisely what Miles wanted to do. He didn't want any part of Damon Gant on him, or any reminders of what had just happened. Of course, there were the scratches, and tomorrow morning there'd most likely be bruises; but he wanted to feel  _clean_ , to have as much of it gone as possible, he wanted it tucked away somewhere in his psyche— he needed to do that because that was how you coped with things...  
  
 _Like the death of his father.  
  
Like his resulting guilt from that event.   
  
Like the horrible, knife-twisting-in-his-stomach horror that he felt when he imagined Manfred von Karma strapped to a chair, a drip running into his arm and slowly killing him, all because the truth— his truth— had come out.  
  
Like the sadness he felt for von Karma's daughters: he knew what it was like to lose a father, and now thanks to _him _, they'd lost theirs._  
  
He could feel water running down his face as Gant ran a sponge over his forehead. He closed his eyes and felt himself going to a strange place between utterly removed and stiff with fear and revulsion.  
  
"What are you thinking about, Worthy?"  
  
"Nothing," he said coldly.   
  
"You thinking about what we were doing earlier...?"  _We._  Like it was a mutual activity.   
  
He felt the sponge run down his back and more warm water, and then a dull stinging. "I see I  _did_  leve a few marks on you, m'boy," Gant offered cheerfully. "That's a fair scratch on you." He chuckled to himself and then tossed the sponge in the water. "Come on, now... let me see you get  _clean_."  
  
"No." Miles sat there, letting the water caress his body, but he  _wasn't_  going to cave to Damon Gant again. Not over something as trivial as this.  
  
"Let's not argue, Edgey."  
  
"It's only an argument when there is more than one participant," Miles offered coldly, suddenly feeling the chill of the air around him.  
  
"Are you calling me— Chief Gant— argumentative?"  
  
"I never said that."  
  
And that was when Miles felt himself pulled, harshly— to the side of the tub by his hair, the larger man's grip holding him there. He knew if he struggled, he'd slip in the water; and that Gant would enjoy it all too much.  
  
"I know you're being clever, Worthy... and I know you're  _like that_ ," he hissed in his ear. "Now  _do as I say—_  or I'll do it for you." He chuckled again, still leaning in close to Edgeworth. "And you know how I play, my boy."

He sighed quietly, and absently flicked some water against his skin. He could hear drops of water falling into the bathtub, almost echoing in the large, high-ceilinged room.   
  
"Here." Gant threw the sponge at the water in front of him and he watched as it broke the surface and disappeared somewhere amongst the bubbles. Retrieving it, he lifted it to his face and dabbed tentatively at one cheek, where he knew he'd have a bruise to explain the following morning.   
  
"Still a bit sore, are you?" He glanced across the bath as though looking for something, and Miles found his body clenching again, wondering if the chief was considering doing something else to him in here.   
  
No one would have expected this of Gant; he was upbeat and cheerful all the time, friendly and talkative— he seemed so  _nice_ ; a niceness that was equalled by the same amount of darkness... which most of the world would never see.   
  
He found himself wondering about Lana then, if she saw it too or if she'd be genuinely shocked if she knew about this. He wasn't sure whether or not the two were involved like  _that_ , but they certainly seemed close. He wondered bitterly how she'd react if she knew. Or if she  _heard_ , would she just accuse whoever told her of a grandiose and perverse imagination.  
  
He laughed, as he watched Miles gingerly run the wet sponge over his chest. His hand was still gripping Miles' hair— holding him but thankfully not pulling him.  
  
Miles kept his eyes down, trying not to imagine the look on Gant's face, triumph, and a sick kind of pleasure, like he'd  _won something_. "You're insane," he whispered to himself as he draped the sponge over his back, wincing at the sting of unexpected water against broken skin.  
  
"What was that, Worthy?"  
  
"Nothing," he murmured.   
  
He felt the other man's fingers tighten, pulling his hair again, and then there was the push, and the splash as he was plunged, headfirst, into the water.   
  
 _Is he going to kill me...? Surely no..._  
  
His chain of thought was broken as he was wrenched up again, gasping for air like... oh, the irony— a fish out of water.  
  
"Don't you go insulting me, Worthy-boy," he snapped. "I have very good means of making things disappear... and it's not like anyone would  _miss_  you, given what you did to Manny-boy."  
  
 _Manny-boy_. Like it was a pet name. He briefly tried to imagine something like this happening with Manfred, and couldn't. He wondered if Manfred had been the thing which turned Gant into this twisted, horrible creature.  
  
He didn't respond, lost in thought and pain.   
  
And then something beautifully unexpected happened: in the almost-echoing bathroom, he heard the tinny, high-pitched ring of what he assumed was meant to be a classical organ piece.  
  
Gant's phone was ringing.  
  
"Oh-dearie-me," he said, jovial and bright, but with a level of urgency. "You'd better get yourself cleaned up and out of here." He let go of Miles roughly, and walked towards the door, answering the phone on the way.  
  
The way he spoke, it was like he  _was_  speaking to Lana. He wasn't going to want Lana to see  _this_  if she came over, or the mess in the living room which had shifted to the bedroom and not been cleared away. He wouldn't want her to hear the echo of the bathroom behind him on the phone.  
  
This was it. Miles offered a silent prayer of  _thankyou_  to anyone who'd be able to hear, and for the first time since he'd stepped into the bath, he relaxed, stretching out his legs, allowing the water to embrace him.   
  
He wondered when Gant would return, what he'd say and expect. But in those moments of silence and privacy, he decided something: tomorrow morning, he was going. Where, he didn't know, but he was going to run. Away from this, away from his identity, away from everyone who knew him and everything which had made him what he was.  
  
Including this sore, shivering wreck in another man's bathroom.  
  
But for now, he just had the space to stretch out and not worry about how it looked to Damon Gant, and the privacy to finally weep.


End file.
